Greyline
by Nano-Moose
Summary: While the combined effects of a terrible war and a baffling plague ravage the Irken Empire, a team of misfits with chequered pasts may be their final hope. But what mysteries will they uncover...? Second chapter, now with crappy OC's included.
1. Log Entry 01 Silcia

**Log of the _Scryer_ - Date 6413-43-27 Warm Cycle - encrypted**

Planet Kurish entry

I don't know how the war started.

I honestly don't think the Tallest do either – they really didn't care until it became obvious they had to be involved. To them, it was just a tactic. A lucky break. Wars leave the population demoralized and decimated. When you're trying to conquer a race, demoralized and decimated is a _good_ thing.

From a military standpoint of course. From my standpoint, decimated is never a good thing.

But I digress.

I don't know what sparked it. It could have been a trade dispute. An assassination. A small resistance or a coup de tat. Or even a completely random species clash – a sporting event, staged for some higher power. Some jerkwad higher power, I might add. It's amazing, the cruelties you can stoop to when all you can see is people who aren't as good as you are.

All I know is that an Invader got caught up in the struggle. Poor unfortunate prakking unlucky bastard got caught in his base building weapons that could destroy an entire continent – and that wasn't the reason they killed him.

It's not funny. Really it isn't.

They killed him because after they pried off his disguise and destroyed his base and broke his mind-

After all that, they discovered he vaguely resembled the species they were fighting with. And, just to make it clear: They didn't _like_ the species they were fighting with, so they immediately assumed he was a spy.

Or he just admitted he was working for them so they'd stop doing that thing with the taser rod; no one'll ever be certain.

So they killed him. He died. He died for a _technicality_.

He died because they weren't sure what he was, and just wanted to be certain they didn't disadvantage themselves.

And the Irkens got involved on a technicality too – the Tallest couldn't care less what happened to that nameless Invader, but the Advisors convinced them that such displays of rebellious spirit were not suitable for a planet to be conquered. And with flawless Irken logic, they said they should send the unstoppable might of the Irken Armada to crush all resistance…

They may have used the words 'destroy' and 'squish', too. Repetition is something you get used to when advising the Tallest.

They were half-right.

Such displays of rebellious spirit aren't suitable for a planet to be conquered.

But the Irken Armada was by no means unstoppable.

I don't know how the war started.

But I know how it will end.

**Log User Silcia - entry completed at 1739 - begin encryption…**


	2. 01: Catalyst

Greyline

By Nano-Moose

_Okey-day, chilluns. Welcome shmelcome (and other such stuff) to my hopefully pan-chapterly fic. In response to my three reviews, I get much of my style from such writing greats as Matthew Reilly, Eion Colfer, and that guy who wrote Shatterpoint. Something Stover. So yeah, I have a reputation for simplistic smartness. I read quite a lot and that's bolstered my vocabulary, with the result that I sound like a pretentious little brat in my stories. Hooray. My sister seems to like it though. And she's nearly my beta reader. Oh yeah, that's another thing: I HAVE no beta reader. All my stuff is pure 'type type F7 spellcheck type type finish read over delete crap type read over upload'. I'm a good speller though, so it probably won't bother you._

_Disclaimer: Sadly Invader Zim and all related entities belong to Nickelodeon and Viacom, however neglectful as parents they may be. They are, however, still the intellectual property of Jhonen Vasquez and they can't take that until they remove his brain or something. The OC's you may spot are mine, the plot is mine, and the various new stuff around is mine. Oh yeah, and if you've heard of 'the lizard of odd', or Liz Bailey, then you'll know that I used some of her stuff for reference, mainly referring to Irken culture. I've been RPing it for a while and it sticks. Make sure you go visit her site, cause she rocks and draws incredibly. Now with that out of the way…_

_3…2…1…let's jam…_

Chapter 01: Catalyst

The Massive cruised through the silent black void of space.

It was aptly named – a gargantuan ship that dwarfed the swarms of star-fighters surrounding it into glittering metal specks, which could barely be discerned against the backdrop of stars. Hundreds upon thousands upon millions upon billions of them, most of which were surrounded by multiple planets, some of which were infested with life.

It was this life that the Massive - and the fighters it was surrounded by - hoped to extinguish.

These ships all followed the same basic design - Irken, as was proclaimed by the antennae-pronged symbol sprayed on any readily visible surface. They were all smoothed and rounded, with bizarrely organic bulges in their hulls, all following the same colour scheme of deep red and dark purple, all sharp edges and gleaming weaponry.

And all of them were part of the same mission.

They were the Armada, and nothing stood in their way.

The current leader of the race that commanded it – strictly speaking, _one_ of the current leaders – inspected the cloud of fighters, tapping his foot impatiently. He was extremely tall – the tallest, one might say – and dressed from head to foot in violet, which matched his gleaming eyes. These were set in a face that was pale green, with long, expressive antennae sweeping back from his forehead.

"I dunno," he stated, scratching his neck with one of his two remaining fingers.

His fellow leader, identical to him in every way except in that his clothes and eyes were scarlet, batted irritably at an attendant who was attempting to fan him.

"You don't know what?" he muttered, snatching a bag of chips from the attendant, and stamping heavily on his foot.

His counterpart turned to him. "Do we really need to bring in the Invaders? I mean, those guys are such jerks. And half of them aren't even that tall. Aren't we supposed to be all about – y'know – crushing the opposition with unstoppable might, and that?"

Red drew himself up to his full, impressive height – though it would have been somewhat more intimidating had his mouth not been crammed full of chips. "Yeah," he mumbled indistinctly, "What's your point?"

"How are we supposed to keep up that reputation if our elite soldiers are little titchy weenies?"

"The alien guys did kill one of the Invaders, and the Advisors aren't so happy about it," Red reminded him.

Purple nodded, rubbing a contemplative hand across his chin. "Yeah, that's true. Well, if we're going to bring in the Invaders, does that include Skoodge? I really don't like that guy."

"Not Skoodge," said Red. "Too short. We'd be a laughing-stock."

There was a pause as they both thought about the other Invading embarrassment.

"What about Zim?" said Red, finally.

They both looked at each other and at the same moment stuck out their arms and yelled "Unstoppable Death Machine!"

"No," sighed Purple, "definitely not Zim. In fact, let's not say anything about this to Zim."

Red nodded happily as he crumpled the empty chip packet and threw it at another attendant who was trying to give him a report. "An accidental over-sight kind of thing."

"Yeah," said Purple, "We don't want too many defectives. Those guys always cause so much trouble…"

Yet another attendant, his face mask and heavy red tunic identifying him as a technician, chose that moment to scurry into the room, breathless from carrying a thick data-pad that obviously had too many special features to warrant making it compact. This he handed to Red, who took it and glanced it over.

"The FX is certified for flight, My Tallest, we just need to get the – the special crew you requested-"

Red leaned forward, enjoying, as he always did, the way the shorter being wilted slightly as The Tallest loomed over him. "Do you know where they are?"

"Y-yes sir," the Tech stammered, "The female defective appears to be operating around Kurish and the male is trucking fries to Foodcourtia – the other two have already been pulled from training and are awaiting assign-"

"Well, hurry it up," Red snapped. "We don't have time for messing around with theories and I want that ship there in case this doesn't go so well. If we don't see this thing up and running by the time we're halfway there, you'll be laundering strait jackets at the IIMD. Understand?"

"Yes My Tallest. Right way, my Tallest." The Tech finally got the message to the appropriate limbs and bowed clumsily, before back-pedaling frantically and nearly falling over a table-head drone.

Red grinned derisively as he watched him go.

"I love it when you get all leaderly like that," Purple said mildly.

Red shot him a very dirty look. "I'll be glad when this is over."

Purple grunted. "It'll be over soon. Unstoppable might, remember? We'll be fine as long as Zim doesn't get involved. Which he won't. He's on that backwards little planet that's no one cares about, remember?"

It was not only Zim they had to worry about, however…

* * *

Irken Heavy Gunner Krit, second-in-command of the _Flash-Finder_, was, for once in his life, having a remarkably good day. It might have been the weather – there had been no energy storms or meteorite showers to fly into for _days_ now. It might have been his recent promotion to captain. Or it might have been the continued absence of their former captain, one Commanding Officer Trang, who had previously taken it upon himself personally to make Krit's life a living hell.

He was on a routine mission to chart the landmarks on one of the myriad planets of the Irken Empire. A few days ago, one of their Observer Drones had reported what was either a big ship or a small meteor that had landed - or crashed – on the one of the older planets. Ruinish. They had already started mapping the crash area when Trang – with many snide allusions to Krit's lack of observation – had picked up a distress signal, a distinctly Irken signature, coming from one of the wrecked buildings that, oddly, still remained after the planet's life had been scoured from it. He'd said he should investigate himself, since Krit would probably screw it up.

They had been looking for him for the past three days. Their CO had gone into the building with two of Krit's squad mates to investigate the signal and had not returned. Three days was the required time limit before the Second-in-command had to take over his officer's position, and if they could not find their missing leader in a week, then he was assumed dead and the position made permanent.

Krit was not unduly worried. After all, he was confident that they would eventually find their missing CO, because all Irken Paks came packaged with transmitters to help locate their hosts. Trang was no exception. They would find him. But until they _did_ find him, Krit was perfectly happy where he was. Ves and Murf were both about to land and begin their third search. It was just a matter of time. They would find him.

"_Stupid piece of junk," _said his Pak communicator. Krit recognized the sharp bark of Murf, the squad's other Heavy Gunner, a beefy individual who had a real problem with Krit's authority.

"_CO_ _Krit, are you receiving?" _That had to be Ves, the pilot – she'd been the only other Irken left on the ship dispensable enough to send down.

Krit gestured and the mike extended from his ID Pak to hover at a convenient height near his mouth. "I'm receiving loud and clear, Ves. Confirm your position. Oh, and Murf – no personal comments."

Murf started swearing just before Ves managed to cut him off. _"We are approaching the building where Trang last reported – it's a run down pile of nix, by the way – at co-ordinates 19: 543-5. "_

"Confirmed position, co-ordinates 19: 543-5. Just like yesterday."

"And I take it we have permission to enter?" 

Krit grinned. "Sure do. Just like yesterday."

"_Eh,"_ said Ves's voice, _"I'll be glad when we find him so we can get off this prakkin' rock. Get back to the action."_

"It won't be long," he assured her, "I fixed your locator up, it should be much more powerful. I daresay he's found an old snack-machine or some-"

"_I thought you said no personal comments, CO,"_ Murf growled.

Krit could just imagine his smirk. _Idiot,_ he thought. _I hope Trang finds a reason to put him on punishment cycles.

* * *

_

Ves stood in a puddle as she surveyed the building, keeping a careful eye on the shadows that leapt from her pak-light every time she moved. There had once been light, here – the round protrusions, polished smooth, still remained on the ceiling as a testament – but since the life has been vaporized, nothing was left but dark and damp.

It summed up the building as a whole, really. It may have once been beautiful – columns rose and joined to the ceiling in smooth tapering arches, and the walls were covered in intricate carvings. There were the faded, scorched and tattered remains of hangings and shattered remnants of objects cast in some bright metal that refused to dull, even now. But there was no life – nothing rustled the hangings, no one disturbed the faint _drip…drip_ that resulted from the unidentifiable moisture.

The air was cold. Icy cold. Cold enough to make her shiver.

Ves advanced carefully into the stillness, keeping her antennae pricked to the sounds that echoed, searching for a sign of her lost CO. She closed her eyes for a moment and _listened…_ the dull sixth sense that emanated from her pak told her…left…

She opened her eyes and glanced down the dark, damp passage that was to her left, a vague, prickling sensation creeping up along her arms.

"Murf," she said aloud, knowing the pak mike would pick up her voice and transmit it to her companion. "You seen any sign of our beloved CO?"

_"Not a fraggin' thing, Ves."_

"My locator says he should be down this here tunnel…have we checked it before?"

_"Just a sec…transmitting map and known passages."_

"Received," she said, watching a rough blueprint draw itself in mid-air. Her position was labeled with a pulsing dot. "Nope, unexplored tunnel. I'm gonna check it out. Don't wait up for me."

Murf chuckled. It sounded like a rush of static. _"Prak no."_

"Thanks for boosting my paranoia."

"_Just part of the job, Ves. Murf, cutting transmission."_

Ves sighed. He was a good gunner, Murf was, but he hardly had the right temperament. He was not as cool and calculating as many of the officers she knew, preferring instead to try to 'raise moral' in his squad-mates. Odd behaviour. Still, she liked him – he was frank and honest, and detested keeping what the higher-ups called 'dangerous knowledge' out of the hands of the foot soldiers.

She was just trying to remind herself that she was supposed to be totally focused on the mission when the metallic pulsing in her mind reached a peak, and the tunnel opened out onto a much, much larger chamber. The same bright metal gleamed on the walls here, set in a beautiful and elaborate pattern. There were no windows, yet something about the place made her feel…watched.

Ves followed the pattern with her eyes, down and down, to where it joined to the floor and merged with the-

With a sudden yell that echoed in the desolate atmosphere, Ves ran forward to the side of a still, delicate figure that lay curled up, limp and unmoving. Her pak-light reflected off something on his back, the light lancing briefly into her eyes. An Irken pak.

"Trang," she whispered, "CO Trang, can you hear me? Where are the others? Are you- Oh dear Slark!"

She had turned him up to reveal his face…or what was left of it. It was a horrific sight – his normally smooth green skin was dry, flaking…grey, the grey of tarnished metal. Even the act of moving him caused a flurry of something like dust. Ves choked as she realized she was breathing in her dead CO. A wave of disgust crashed in on her and she backed carefully away, accidentally skidding on a puddle and landing on her rear. An observer may have been tempted to laugh. But the situation was not even remotely funny. For a moment, Ves could do nothing but stare into his still-open eyes.

They were drained of colour. Dull and completely _blank,_ like worn marble.

Ves choked as bile rose in her throat. She forced it down, hurriedly glancing away.

"Prak…Murf! I found him! He's in bad, bad shape…"

Murf hissed. "_Damn. How bad?"_

"He's grey…and dry…and…well…dead…it looks like some kind of virus." Ves wondered, somewhere under her utter horror, why she sounded so calm.

_"Prak!"_

"I…don't think we're gonna find the others…"

_"Then just get his chip and leave him!"_

"What about our…" Ves made a half-hearted attempt at sounding professional, then the overwhelming need to just get _away _took over. "Removing memory chip. Frag, Murf, we need to get back to the ship, find out what happened."

Ves tried not to look at her Commander's face, swallowing as she flicked his memory chip out of his pak. Then, without a backwards glance, she raced out of the chamber, tripping on rubble and slipping on puddles, going faster and faster…

_Back to the ship, _she told herself,_ get back and analyse…_

Without realizing that, step-in-step, someone or something was silently following.

* * *

Round and shiny. That was the way GIR liked his toys. Round and shiny and squishy. Because if they were squishy, Master wouldn't yell at you so much when you threw them at his head, and if they were shiny you could find them easier when you dropped them in the taco-sauce, and if they were round, they were easier to hug.

GIR liked hugging things. It was an odd deficiency in his programming as a horribly destructive robot slave, and Zim was trying to rectify it. With, it must be said, some success – if GIR would only stop attempting to play with the equipment.

Zim snatched his tool-kit out of the diminutive robot's hand, snapping at him to "keep his FILTHY little metal digits away from the sensors". Zim did not know what GIR had been playing in, but whatever it was left bubbling black streaks on anything made of glass - not at all desirable near his very delicate equipment.

He was trying very hard to keep his minion properly strapped down so he could get at the deranged little robot's head cavity, but for all his massively advanced technology (which was arranged in a suitably creepy manner around his base) he was finding it extremely difficult to get GIR to sit still.

"You may be my undyingly loyal minion, GIR, but that doesn't exempt you from common hygiene!" Zim was trying to look impressive. It was a tough job at three feet high. "You must remember to ALWAYS wash your hands after you've been gathering information outside. That is why I had the antiseptic field installed in the elevator! Why don't you _use _it?"

GIR stared at his master for quite a long moment, before stating, "Piggy dun like the swooshy blue thing! He say it gives 'im the itchies!"

Zim made an irritated noise that roughly equated to 'Gack' in English, popping open GIR's head whilst he twirled a bizarre device in his left hand. "Yes, GIR, but itchiness is a small price to pay when you consider the chances of catching some horrible stinky Earthen disease and – HNGAAK!"

Zim hastily withdrew his glove from the nether regions of GIR's head clutching a damp, squishy object that had morphed into something completely indescribable, though it may have once been a sandwich. GIR spotted it and clapped his metallic hands together with a faint _clink_. "Look! It's a taco!" he squealed.

"Errgh! Ew ew ew!" Zim danced on the spot before tossing the object into his garbage chute. He turned back to GIR, furious, ramming his tool into the middle of GIR's circuitry with more force than could be considered necessary.

"Sandwiches!" Zim yelled, ripping out a few vital circuits. "Tacos, pizza, putrid Earthen stink beasts _drooling_ whenever I get too close! Gah, if it were not so necessary for me to remain on this _filthy_ spinning clod I would have pulled whatever force I could out of the Armada to reduce these humans into dripping goo! Goo which would then be used as hot-sauce in the finest restaurants this side of the Northern Spir-"

_"-Skritchak Sector co-ordinates 4393-488-23, eighth planet orbiting the Jathum star. Message repeats. All Invaders-"_ said GIR.

"-eh?" Zim stared at the little robot, who was suddenly completely limp, his normally glowing cyan blue eyes flickering dangerously. Then he glanced at the wires in his hand. They were loosely kept in a bundle by a piece of tape labeled 'TRANSMISSION BLOCKER – DO NOT REMOVE'.

GIR was still speaking, and not in his normal high metallic edged squeal. _"-that can be spared from their conquering duties are ordered to report to Conventia for re-assignment to battle stations. All SIR units must remain at the assigned planets to maintain bases and leadership until the Invaders return. Further information will be available upon arrival. This is not a drill or a set-up. Invaders that cannot be spared from their duties must transmit all useful research and any captured slaves to the Skritchak Sector co-ordinates 4393-488-23. Message ends."_

Zim stared incredulously at his robotic minion. "An announcement?" he gasped. This was incredible. No, this was _impossible._ Announcements were never so generalized except in cases of utmost importance – for example, when a new Operation was beginning, or in the case of war. SIR units, too, were never to be left alone on their planets unless the unit's master was either dead, on trial or…or called to battle.

"By Slark," Zim breathed, grinning wildly at GIR's still flickering eye-lights. "They've declared war."

* * *

_And so there it ends, for now. Just so you know, this chapter is…ugh, not even I like it, and I wrote the prakking thing. Yesh, this is the main style for the fic. Maybe I will improve as I go along. Be awaiting more and shinier chappies, when I will be able to stop flicking between viewpoints like so and get down the meat. Of course, before we have the meat, we must bite through the bread – and this is it, all the necessary foreshadowing and crap. Review and stuff. It'll make me life shinier._


	3. 02: Defection

Greyline

By Nano-Moose

_Noosh. Chapter 2. There is art up at my DeviantART homepage for this fic if you wanna see. Look at the link in my bio or if you're lazy it's www.nowingedvulture. took somewhat longer to write this for some reason. Sitting there, pounding away at what I affectionately call "Spiky Toshiba" and the rest of the time "fragmuffin"… I don't know, I neglect my duties in order to pound away at my other love: the end of society, or 'gaming' as I call it. I'm sure you people won't mind. You are, after all, completely at my whim since I have no obligation to you whatsoever; this is done entirely within my own time, without pay. Of course the fact that I probably would have pay if I stopped wasting time on this stuff is just another reason to finger-point: YOU are the reason I'm unemployed._

_So there._

_Now that I have completely lost your respect:_

_Ahem. The usual salutations, and the disclaimer: I own squat, 'cept for Silcia and 'Shade'. Dun sue me.

* * *

_

Chapter 02: Defection

The starship _Scryer_ hung in the void, its engines set to cruising speed as it powered towards its destination. Smooth-lined yet bulky, there was something about its design that vaguely suggested it had an Irken pilot – one who had decided to abandon the typical bloody reds and purples and instead go for a simple and practical steel-grey. An odd, hooked symbol had been painted on the underside, but even this had nearly been worn away by what looked like several decades of hard flying – and fighting.

Inside the ship all was silent. The practically battered motif continued to the interior. There were only two real rooms on the _Scryer_, and that was including the cramped and desperately sparse prison cell that lay unoccupied, separated from the cockpit by a thick, electronically secured door.

Usually, or at least sometimes, that cell would be occupied with a protesting alien criminal. Right now it contained several snack wrappers. Nothing important was ever kept in there, or the occupants might have been able to use it to escape, and escape meant getting into the cockpit and killing/injuring the pilot. Therefore, everything of even the faintest use was locked beneath the pilot's chair, which unlike the cell was currently in use.

The ship's pilot was female and very strange looking, stick-thin and delicate, with smooth, hairless green skin and long curling antennae that right now lay slack as she stared blankly into nothingness. Strangely for her species, something about her suggested taut, sinewy strength. Apart from that, she was very typically Irken. Dressed in armor and clothing that was just as battered and useful as everything else she owned however, she was rather more imposing than usual, for a creature just under five feet high. The final, distinctly odd aspect of her appearance was the delicate, flimsy-looking silver headset that enclosed her skull, its sharp points glinting against her skin.

The deep space silence was broken by a faint buzzing noise. The ship's pilot stirred from her reverie and mumbled tiredly, raising one gloved claw to neatly tap one of dozens of incomprehensible buttons that were arrayed before her.

"Vggrrzz?" she said, then grimaced and tried again. "I mean, yeah?"

A creature that looked something like an extremely hairy lizard appeared on the low-res communication screen. "This is Margran hailing Silcia, do you copy?" 

Silcia yawned behind her hand; her teeth were joined and serrated. "Silcia copies, Margran, what the hell do you want?" Her voice was oddly deep and scratchy. It did not sound human, which wasn't really all that strange considering she wasn't one.

"You on a job right now?" 

"No." _I am so un-job doing right now that I'm going to Mallirai for fries, just for something to do._ "My last mark had to go and get himself killed before I could get to him." Silcia rubbed her temple, the memory bringing on a headache. "Something about internal politics, mass-murder…blah blah blah. The usual sad story. Why, have you got something for me?"

The hairy-lizard-thing smiled. It was not a reassuring expression. _"So what, I can't just give you a social call?"_

Silcia's jewel-red eyes narrowed suspiciously, though she did smile a little. She knew Margran of old – he'd been the captain of the last starship she's stowed away on, and had been the one to suggest she become a Bounty Hunter. While she wouldn't call him a friend, precisely, he usually knew what he was talking about. "As it happens, Margran, no, _you_ can't. Why'd you call me?"

Margran laughed, or at least made noises that suggested a laugh. Either that or chronic lung seizure. _"I think someone's a little bit testy. And I also think I know you too well – I fully expected you to say that. Okay, here's what I got for you: a message came for you on Kurish."_

Silcia's reply sounded something like "Beh".

"_Which I can tell doesn't exactly thrill you."_ The lizard thing made a short huffing noise that sounded strange over the out-of-date equipment. _"It's from the Irken Empire."_

She sat up at that, knocking an empty box of Icky Chips off the console.

Margran sniggered. _"Thought that would get your attention. I'll transmit it to you over the com frequency, shouldn't take a sec. See you sometime. Maybe then it really will be a social call."_

She nodded at him by way of respect as the lizard's face fuzzed into blankness, though her mind was suddenly in turmoil. Calls from people who thought she was following them, yes. Calls from former employers trying to trace her location, yes. Calls from relatives/friends/accidental widows, yes. Irken Empire, never, except for that one time when they tried to trace her location and she'd ended up leaving the guys who came after her in the middle of a Harjae bar-fight. Totally accidental, of course. But the sending of seven SecGuards to the meds and one to the incinerator had convinced them to leave her to her own devices, at least until she became an active threat.

Silcia frowned heavily. She was pretty certain she hadn't done anything particularly threatening to the Empire lately, but then, their method of processing non-military operations was notoriously slow and bureaucracy-riddled. Especially if it didn't concern the Tallest.

The console blinged. Cracking her knuckles then swearing loudly when they retaliated with a sharp stab of pain, Silcia selected the "NEW COM" function, then "PLAY ALL".

After a moment of electrical stuttering, the message began.

"_Ex-Invader Trainee Ex-Table Drone No. 74029 Now Convict Level Five. Silcia." _The creature that appeared on the console screen was also obviously Irken, though he was dressed much more officially and traditionally. He was tall too, which meant important. That much was confirmed by the use of her full (and tediously long) station-name. Silcia snorted. It was hard to believe she'd rated personal contact by management – this would probably end up being a trap.

_"I understand we have not been introduced. That is fine, for the moment. We will not be. Introduction is not important. What is important is the preposition I am about to outline to you. Realize that this is not merely for the sake of our particular race – it is vital to this entire galaxy."_

Vital. To the entire galaxy – which to the average Irken meant about as much as something found stuck to the underside of his boot.

_"You no doubt are aware that at the moment we are engaged in a war with the insurrectionist forces near the western spiral arm. Although our forces are already in motion, and victory is certain, we have been ordered by the Almighty Tallest to contact you in order to discover if you would consent to being part of a secondary operation – a back-up plan, if you will."_

Which meant that they were worried. Interesting. And that they had decided that either they needed her or that they had spotted an opportunity to get rid of her. Somewhat less interesting. But the fact that the Tallest had ordered this made her very curious indeed. What kind of plan could the worst military tacticians in existence possibly think up that would involve a Bounty Hunter who didn't give a Jorglin's end what happened to them?

_"If you are interested, we will pick you up at Buyercentria and give you further briefing. I understand this does not tell you much about the proposed mission, but I can guarantee it will involve many explosions._

_"I hope you accept this, Convict Silcia. Remember that millions of Irken lives may depend on your decision – and alien sc- alien lives as well. It is your choice. Transmission end."_

And indeed it did, cutting off and winking back into a smaller icon on her console screen.

Buyercentria was a shopping mall planet, conquered and named by the species that brought such imaginative names as Conventia, the convention planet, Dirt, a garbage dump planet and Foodcourtia. Silcia sighed theatrically. It was very far off her course and would require a lot of fuel that she barely had the creds to pay for. If even she decided to go.

For a moment, she vaguely considered it. It was probably pretty important if they were willing to stoop so low as to ask a Bounty Hunter that was not even supposed to exist for help. And the many explosions thing might have been true too – though they were wrong if they thought she would accept solely on the idea that there might be explosions.

But then her reason cut in and informed her that several decades ago she'd made a promise to herself that she would never associate with the Irken race again, or even acknowledge that she was a member of it. And the Irken officer's words came back to her. "It is your choice."

_So choose, Convict Silcia._

She did, and keyed in the flight pattern that would take her back to Kurish. Then she took one final glance at the only message she'd ever received from the race that had made her who she was.

"Almost had me convinced there, Officer boy," she said, and hit the delete button.

* * *

Dib dragged himself from the garbage chute and flopped heavily to the floor of Zim's base, dropping his bulky backpack momentarily, all caution lost in a moment's pained retching. It had taken him over half an hour to figure how to avoid getting incinerated in the chute's workings, and that had been half an hour's worth of clambering through nameless alien filth and other things that had probably once been of human origin, but were now decomposed to something grey, jelly-like and thoroughly gross.

But it would all be worth it, all the garbage crawling and taunts and organ removal. That would all make it worthwhile once he exposed Zim to the world.

Dib felt absurdly comforted by the thought and stood up, pulling the sandwich-thing out of his dark, spiky hair and tossing it aside, then whipping off his glasses and trying to get the worst of the gunk off. When he could see through them again he slid them on and blinked in order to focus on his surroundings.

He'd been in Zim's base before and was surprised to note that not much at all had changed since then. He'd assumed that all aliens had some kind of outpost rearrangement device to prevent enemies from memorizing the layout of their bases. Oh well – this was a good thing. It meant he could move about with a little confidence, and getting out would be easier too.

After fumbling in his bag for a moment, Dib produced the kind of black, shiny, knob-covered, compact, feature-ridden camera that would have made a journalist wheeze. An observer would have noticed how carefully he handled it, as though it were made of paper or would explode upon contact. Also how avidly he checked to see if the lens cap was off, if the battery was charged, if the film was present and wound and that it was in focus. Then he started snapping photos.

Alien machinery that seemed to be made up of tubes and buttons. Click. Various containment cells that held an assortment of animals and one very vacantly smiling human child with several tubes in his head. Click. A device that was covered in specifications labeled in the blocky, tapering letters Dib suspected were the Irken language. Click.

Dib began to suspect that Zim had gone out, which was a bit strange, considering he'd almost never seen the deranged little wannabe overlord anywhere apart from his base or the Skool. Unless of course he was enacting some new evil plan. Or finding new ways to screw up spectacularly. If the base's owner had been at home, Dib should have been able to hear GIR screaming, but instead there was just silence. Utter stillness.

…Except for the faint noises he could hear coming from the corridor on his right. Dib struggled for a moment with the urge to get out before he was noticed, but then his innate curiosity got the better of him. He straightened his trench coat and began to move quietly down the corridor.

* * *

"-will have to go. I am needed! The transmission said all Invaders, and I am the greatest of us!"

GIR stopped reciting transmissions long enough to say, perfectly accurately, "No you're not!" and was ignored.

"Besides, I have the most logged battle experience on the Frontline Mechs." Which was true – because he had managed to destroy a good-sized portion of Irk's civilization in one, simultaneously ruining the original Operation: Impending Doom. "The Tallest need me. Who am I to deny them?"

Zim's computer interjected at this point, something like worry crackling through its mainframe. "Uh, I am detecting an unauthorized heat source located in the vicinity of Research Lab-"

"Silence!" Zim pounded one hand on GIR's head as he attempted to reattach the transmission blocker and caused GIR to jerk and suddenly shriek "THAH SPACE MONKEY IS COME!"

"GIR, since you are so vital a robotic slave, you must be fully functional in this critical battle. So quit squirming! I need to jam this back in your head!" Zim put all his weight into holding the robot's head still and with his free hand quickly snapped the wires together and welded them in place. It looked like it had worked – GIR's eyes stopped flickering and he sat up, holding his cone-shaped feet and rocking back and forth childishly.

Zim nodded, satisfied, then slid the welder back into his toolkit and pulled up his goggles. "GIR! Perform systems check!"

GIR nodded and saluted, his eyes flicking red. "Yes, my Lord! All systems operational and ready for use." Then they went blue again and his tiny plastic tongue popped out. "Mah head feels squealy!"

"Excellent! I …eh…think. Computer! Prepare the Voot! I will need supplies to travel long…ways…and stuff." Zim waved his hand vaguely. "You know what to do in this situation, right?"

"Preparing Voot Cruiser for interstellar flight. But Zim, really, if you think about this, the transmission did say to leave the SIRs where they w-"

"SILENCE! I will not be contradicted!" Zim hissed, and made a good go of stalking villainously to the elevator. "I go and must prepare for battle!"

Dib froze at this pronouncement and had to stop himself from letting out an audible gasp. War. Alien wars – Zim thought he'd been called away to fight for his species. And even if that wasn't the case, it was obvious that something was going on with the Irkens. Something big.

Something bad.

_Something I can investigate._

Creeping around the shadows, Dib peered into what served as a hanger and quickly spotted the rounded and vaguely ridiculous silhouette of Zim's personal Voot cruiser. Although he had come to suspect that the machine was obsolete by Irken standards, he knew it contained an atmosphere-tight cargo space, used for containment of botanical specimens and other things that required oxygen.

Dib measured the distance between his hiding place and the Voot with his eyes. He could make it, of course – it was part of his duty as a Paranormal Investigator to be proficient in sneaking and concealment (at least according to the U.F.O. zines Dib read with near-religious dedication). He felt in his bag, reassuring himself of its contents. The camera, still intact, which was remarkable given the fate of all his previous cameras and film. Compact laptop, complete with all the features and several slightly unorthodox modifications compliments of his father. Some gadgets Dib had put together himself, mainly scanners and a few scavenged Irken/human technology hybrid things. Spare film. Spare batteries. Battery charger. His tool kit. A cheese sandwich. Water bottle. And a water pistol – in case Zim caught him and he had to fight his way out.

Not the kind of supplies he would have chosen had he been aware of what he would encounter. But this was a chance to see what aliens were really out there, and if he came back, he would have proof for the world.

If he came back.

Dib only hesitated for a moment. He leapt from his hiding place and scrambled to the Voot, unsealing the cargo container and hauling himself inside. It shut with a pressurizing _shhhhh_ noise, and the light from the hanger vanished, leaving him in the dark, with nothing but his own unsteady breathing to keep him company.

* * *

_Yaaaay, complete! With an introduction to leetle Sil and everything. Please tell me she isn't a Mary Sue. And she does get much more personality later – hopefully when things really kick off, which should be some time around the next chapter or so. There will be other fun characters as well. Mostly Irken, since Irkens are kinda the ones who own this story._

_Well, yeah. Thank you for your previous reviews (and highly undeserved compliments!). I look forward to more reviews (and hopefully some actually deserved compliments) next chapter. And you did indeed make my life shinier. Good night everybody! (ninja poof)_


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